


New Game

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Drunken Shenanigans, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9347033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: He's completely focused on the moose about to trample his mouse, even as she crouches between his legs and says with a cocky grin: "Keep playing."He's going to win this bet, even if it costs him his life. After all, he has nine more to spare.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The box was old, dusty, and there was a scrawled _Emily’s Shit_ on the side in violent black marker. Reid peered over Emily’s shoulder as she traced a surprised hand over the buckled cardboard and curiously tugged the top open. Jewelled CD cases glittered at them, fracturing the light from the single closet bulb above.

“Oh, my Playstation!” Emily said, delving into the box with abandon. Reid stepped back and watched, his hands braced against the hallway wall and the door tipping a little in his uncertain vision. They were drunk, barely, and on a quest to find the line before ‘plastered’ and throw themselves gleefully over it, but were being completely hampered by the lack of a corkscrew in the house. “I mean, shit, we can’t open your pretentiously annoying wine bottle with it, but I’ve missed this thing!”

Since apparently she’d forgotten their quest, he slipped away to find where they’d left the bottle while she was distracted. _I have a dozen of them somewhere_ , she’d complained upon realizing the corkscrew was lost, and he’d cheerfully said, _never mind, I can get the cork out without it._ Oddly, she hadn’t trusted him. Which was probably understandable, considering his last physics magic demonstration had broken Anderson’s computer monitor.

He found the bottle in the scattered odds and ends of their movie night on the living room coffee table. An empty French onion dip, two crumby bowls, their shoes laying in a companionable tangle of laces on the rug. A blanket folded at one end of the couch where she’d sprawled with her eyes on the TV and one leg crooked against his thigh. When he traced his fingers across that blanket, it was warm. He swallowed, the DVD menu singing the same three bars of a theme song over and over and narrating this moment as he withdrew his hand and rubbed his fingers across his palm. Not dry-mouthed at all, his heart beating along just fine. Just fine. He was fine. Just spending a night with a friend, fine.

The couch sunk gratefully under him as he lowered himself onto it, closing his eyes for a second and smiling as the world slanted. Hit by a flush of heat that left him giddy and vanished as soon as it came, he regretted standing to help find the corkscrew. The wine bottle—their third now, and Reid was feeling his generous share of the first two—mocked him from the table. He scooped it up, bracing it upside-down between his thighs as Emily stumbled back in, box in arms.

“Spyro!” she crowed, holding up a case with a bizarrely cubic purple dog-thing skateboarding on the front. “Oh man, how awesome was this game! Wait, what are you doing—”

Reid stared at her, bringing his palm down on the bottom of the bottle with a meaty _thwop_ and the sound of the cork shifting. Turning it again, he wiggled the cork loose, beamed a smile at her, and said, “Ta da!” while brandishing the now open bottle.

The box hit the couch, lifting him with the impact, and she bounced in-between them moments later. “You jerk!” she said, jabbing his thigh before taking the wine and sloshing it neatly into their glasses with no regard for the time he’d taken choosing the right one for ‘friends spending time together like they always do, nothing different’. “You could have done that twenty minutes ago.”

“But then you wouldn’t have found your…” He examined the game case again. “Dragon… thing.”

Her brows furrowed together, her mouth thinning. “You don’t know what this is, do you?”

He shook his head, sensing a trap. Watching warily as she reached into the box and withdrew another case, this one featuring a polygonal orange bear. “Or that one,” he admitted weakly, and the frown grew. “We never… I never played video games.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down at the cases in her hands. He looked as well, his focus scattered as her hands played across the shiny cover. Narrow hands, delicate without being fragile, the nails barely grown and uneven from being previously bitten. He could read a lot from hands like that, but his brain wouldn’t let him move past the idea that they were _her_ hands. “You know, it’s never too late to learn…” When he finally tore his gaze away from those hands, her eyes were dark with humour and locked on his, her mouth curled into a grin. She tossed the cases down, swigged from her glass—he stared at her throat and ignored the shifting warmth in his stomach—and grabbed one last case. This one was Mickey Mouse, he knew that much, and when she leaned close—one hand on his leg curled so her fingertips brushed the inner seam—and whispered, “Bet you fifty bucks I can beat this before you can, genius,” his male-brain immediately buckled and pertly replied, “You’re on.”

Which wasn’t what he’d wanted to say at all. What he’d _wanted_ to say was more likely ‘that’s unfair, you have an advantage’ or possibly, ‘my hand-eye coordination is going to be negatively impacted by my blood-alcohol content’ or even, ‘please move your hand up a little’ but the first two were giving in and the last was entirely inappropriate.

She set up the console while he finished two glasses of wine simply from nerves and immediately regretted doing so. Feeling flushed and a little overwarm, he watched as she pinned the two fifties to the wall above the TV, ignoring his wry comment about her drywall. This was fine. They’d play games for a few hours, he’d lose terribly, then catch a taxi home without making a fool of himself. All he needed to do was not _completely_ suck, and probably to stop staring at her as she leaned over to…

He swallowed and looked around the room, the glass suddenly unsteady in his hands. Closing his eyes for a half-heartbeat of a second, a hand closed over his and drew the glass to the coffee table. “Alright there, lightweight,” she teased, a list in her stance as she sat—fell, more like it—heavily onto the couch beside him. The box still taking up most of the end of the couch, this left her leaned comfily against his side, shoulder to shoulder and her legs almost overlapping his.

 _Rose musk_ , he thought, catching a note of her perfume as she moved to show him the controller’s buttons. On the screen, he watched the cartoon character bounce merrily about in a black-and-white game version of the Disney short he’d watched as a child.

“Reid?” Emily said suddenly, her voice sharp and slightly irritated, and he snapped back into focus to look at her as she sighed and wrapped his fingers around the controller, showing him how to place his thumbs. “If you suck at this, I’m _telling_ everyone.”

His throat was tight as he nodded mutely and silently willed his body not to respond with drunken eagerness to that touch. To his horror, it only half listened, and he tried to pull away. He closed his eyes, breathed slowly, and opened them to snap his focus onto learning the awkward controls. If he focused on that, he wouldn’t focus on her.

 _Focus,_ he told himself firmly, as her hand fell away from the white-knuckled grip he had on the lightweight controller, the back of it resting against his hip. _Focus, focus, focus…_

“Just breathe,” she suggested, as his mouse avatar was murdered by a parrot. “Watch me.” He did. She was relaxed, almost smiling. Having fun. He watched her clear the level with relative ease, her fingers smooth on the controls. She died, eventually, and handed it back still warm from her skin. “Just like that.”

The glass he’d been nursing while she played was pushing empty, and he put it on the table to avoid the temptation of hiding his nervousness behind more alcohol. “I know plenty about the _theory_ behind games,” he told her morosely, taking the controller back and dying immediately. “Or the history of Walt Disney’s legacy—”

“Is he actually buried under a ride?” she asked him, smirking, and he blinked.

“No?” he replied. She huffed crankily, so he cut her off with a quick, “He wasn’t cryogenically frozen either,” and she sagged with disappointment against his side.

Murmured, “That’s a pity,” and tucked her head against his shoulder, nestled neatly. And this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair at all. He shifted his weight to lean against the arm of the couch, crossing his legs to hide the twitch of interest he couldn’t bear for her to notice. Flushed and tried frantically to hide that embarrassment by _not_ dying on the game for once.

He made it through the level this time, and easily managed the second once he realized it was mostly rote memorization of button patterns. The third he was sailing through when Emily snapped from a sleepy wine-drunk doze to complain that he was cheating by “Using your brain,” which was ridiculous and true and quite frankly what he was _supposed_ to be doing, wasn’t it?

“I can’t _not_ use my brain,” he protested, as she moved into a more comfortable position and her hand skimmed his arm. He shivered, the twitch becoming a jolt despite the uncomfortably cramped position his legs were in, and this time he heard her go _hmm_. The cold rush was successful in stopping any more wayward interest, but it also killed him. Death by free fall. The controller was passed back hurriedly, and he watched as she furiously tried to catch up and died on the second level.

“New rule,” Emily declared, her voice husky and sly. “I can’t fumble my thumbs straight long enough to move the damn mouse, so instead _you_ try to beat the game. If you beat it, you get the money.”

He eyed the money warily, expecting a trap. “That seems simple,” he said carefully. “How do you win?”

And she leaned close, nothing shy or careful about it this time, her hand snaking across his belly. Fingers settling in his belt hoop, one tip tracing the button of his fly and flicking it open, lips against his ear, she purred, “By _distracting_ you,” and he was immediately hard and with no way in hell of hiding it.

He should say no. He should recross his legs. He should do a number of things. Her eyes flickered down, and he watched as she examined his lap and smiled again, her pupils wide. If there was any hope of his _should_ becoming sensible, it vanished as that gaze lifted and she licked her bottom lip.

“You’re on,” he said for the second time that night and restarted the game with fingers that shook. He was imagining this. Fantasising. Misreading her intentions. There was no way that Emily, his co-worker and best friend, was considering—

A thumb slid over his crotch, tracing the line of his dick through his pants with a steady downward pressure, and he almost dropped the controller in shock with a breathy kind of _ah_ slipping from his suddenly open mouth. He felt her shiver, heard her whisper, “Well, _that_ was a lovely sound,” and then he didn’t really consciously think of anything else as that thumb began rubbing in gentle circles across the taut fabric.

He died. Hurtled off a ledge without even thinking of jumping and she laughed and used her free hand to untuck his shirt and slip inside. Palm warm against his stomach, she splayed her fingers, leaned closer again to his ear and told him, “You get ten deaths before you lose,” with her breath hot and suggestive on his skin.

“Stop changing the rules,” he said, his voice husky. “That’s not fair.”

His answer was an odd expression. “Neither is _that_ tone,” she told him, which didn’t really make sense, so he cleared his throat and restarted the level. Made it most of the way through before the pressure on his pants vanished and she slid both hands up his shirt and tickled along the sides of his chest, pausing on his ribcage as he squeaked and thrashed and almost lobbed the controller across the room.

Mickey made a sad noise and fell down into the black of the _game over_ screen. They both looked at it; him with his chest heaving and still half giggling, torso twisted away from her sneaky hands, and her with her eyes alive with the delight of this new discovery.

“Nine left,” she said eventually, and pressed the restart button for him. The smile was back, wide and real, and he felt drunk and giddy and stupid and probably way in over his head. He wondered if she could see how far gone he was just by the way he shook his head and smiled at her. Probably. Oddly, he couldn’t really care when her hands were on him, she didn’t seem to mind his blatant erection, and she didn’t seem _repulsed_ by his interest.

Judging from the restless beat of her heart against his shoulder, quite the opposite.

This time, she watched him play. Doing nothing with her head on his shoulder and arm slung around his stomach, he could barely focus through the simple knowledge that she was _cuddling_ him. Every part of his skin was hyper-focused on that touch, every part of his brain reeling. And he wanted to turn to her, to pull her closer, to slide his own arms around her and snuggle close; he wanted to fall asleep like this with the blanket across them and his mouth on her hair.

“You’re so warm,” she mumbled suddenly against his shirt, wriggling closer. “I’ve thought about this a lot, you know. When you sit here like this, all flustered and striking and—”

He died again, coughing out a startled, “Huh?” that his mother would have scolded him severely for. When he looked at her, for a flash he saw the blunt openness of her expression before she hid it away behind a practised mask and chuckled, “Gotcha.”

His next life vanished as she found a pressure point on his throat with unerring accuracy, the erection that had subsided thankfully as she’d done nothing but hold him back with a vengeance. He’d still battled to keep his focus as she nipped and mouthed at his skin, even as his hips twitched upwards and she’d moaned once against his skin as though the mere act of arousing him was enough for her. “You’re breathing faster,” she licked against his skin, finding his clavicle and tracing her tongue across it in a wicked line. “Your heartrate is elevated. You’re _horny_ , Spencer Reid. If you stop now, roll over and face me, you can show me what that big old brain of yours is cooking up for revenge.”

“Fourth level,” he managed between gritted teeth as the screen transitioned. “I’m not going to lose.”

She went quiet for a moment, before tilting her head back in his peripheral. “If you die, I’ll kiss you,” she said with a soft laugh, and he paused the game with a mash of buttons and pulled away from her. Her eyes went worried and soft all at once as she tried to figure her misstep, his face clearly showing his discomfort.

“I don’t,” he stammered, trying again around the lump in his throat, “I don’t ah… kissing is…”

“You don’t want to kiss me?” she asked, and looked almost hurt.

He tried again. “Not for a game,” he said, feeling his skin turning red with the shame of his mangled request. “Not… not the first time we kiss.”

It was hasty and slipped out, an obscene assumption that there would be more of this night. But she didn’t seem appalled by his presumptions. On the contrary, the worry went away and left something deep and unimaginable in its place.

“Deal,” she said, and he pressed play again just in time to die. There was a hand being _handy_ now, and he stared down at it and made a queer mewl of shock. “You have odd boundaries.”

“Says you with your hand in my pants,” he muttered, resolutely ignoring the fingers tracing the bare line of his pelvic bone under his underwear from his now unbelted and open pants. She laughed and ran her hand under the elastic, fingers always _just_ slightly not touching his dick and entirely aware of what she was doing to him. She did it again as he ran the first two levels from memory, earning herself a sharp, “Jesus, Emily, _just…”_ He trailed off, his hips shifting under her hand, not sure what he’d been about to ask.

“Just what?” she asked cockily. “Just… _touch_ you? Is that what you want, Spence? My hand on your cock?”

He may have squeaked a little at that. Whatever noise he made, it wasn’t words, and it very nearly cost him another life. _Yes_ , screamed his brain, and he squirmed uncomfortably. He risked a glance at her, and shuddered when he saw the shock-stunned look on her face. “What?” he husked eventually, somehow, and she choked out a laugh.

“Do you have any idea what you look like right now?” she asked. “With this look on your face like you _need_ to be fucked?”

He died. Probably worth it this time. He wasn’t sure how many lives he had left anymore.

“You’re a cheat,” he breathed, and put the controller aside for a second. “Can we pause the game?”

She replied, “Yes, why?” and he barely waited for the words to fall from her lips before his mouth was against her, one hand cupping her cheek and the other tangling in her hair. He drew her close, slid his leg over hers, and tried to show her every wordless emotion in the shift of his hands and his mouth and his body. She kissed rawly, hungrily, and made a noise like a gasp when he moaned into her skin. Responsive to his every touch and soft all over, he knew that rationally she was every bit as excited as he was. Rationally, he knew all the physiological signs of sexual arousal. But emotionally, it was impossible to coincide the image of poised, untouchable _Prentiss_ or his saucy best friend with this gorgeous woman coming apart underneath him.

They pulled back, panting, resting with their noses brushing and eyes shuttered and mouths barely touching. Doing nothing but breathing as their heartrates slowed, except for his hand tracing her jaw and throat with a touch that was terrifyingly gentle.

She opened her mouth to say something, said nothing, and he laughed croakily and slid away from her, picking the controller back up. “Unpause,” he murmured, and continued playing. Stunned, she did nothing but watch as he flew effortlessly through the levels.

“I think you’re on your last life,” she said finally, as Mickey struggled his way through a stampede of moose.

“Second to last,” he lied, completely unsure but willing to take the gamble he was right.

“Oh.” She shifted, uncertain, and he saw her hand lift to her mouth and trace where he’d kissed her, eyes huge. She seemed to be considering something, working through it in her clever mind. He kept his focus on the game, shutting her out completely as he snuck into a brand new stage. “Spence?”

“Mmm?” He was only distantly aware of her voice, attention completely narrowed to the rattle of buttons under his thumbs. Even more distantly, he could feel his lips warm from the memory of her mouth, his skin buzzing, a persistent throb of _want_ between his legs that was leaving him on the cusp of not soft anymore, despite managing to ignore the erection away as time ticked on.

“I’m going to cheat now,” she declared, and he almost died. _Almost. Focus,_ he thought again, as she tapped on his lip to encourage him to tilt his hips upright. “Up.” He obeyed, always attuned to that snap of command even when entirely engrossed in some activity. Some absent part of his brain noted several things for later perusal: his pants were no longer what he would call _on_ , she was sliding away and leaving his side cold, she was kneeling between his legs—

He paused the game and looked down at her. “You don’t—” he began, stunned and excited and frantic with worry all at once. “Em, wait…” A hand on her shoulder, forestalling her, and she peered up at him with huge dark eyes as she tugged his boxers down and curled a hand around his cock. “ _Ah.”_

“Keep playing,” she commanded. He teetered between wanting to stop her—they’d been drinking, he’d been excited and sweaty and tense, and he knew that was a collection of activities guaranteed to increase activity in the apocrine glands— “And stop _thinking_. I can see you panicking. Why?”

“It’s not _clean_ ,” he managed with a panicked wriggle away. Her eyebrows rocketed up. “I don’t mean the, ah…”

“Blowjob,” she supplied and grabbed the hand he was trying to use to coax her away. She mouthed at two of his fingers, slipping them between her lips and sucking them down in a pull that went straight from his hand to his cock, his suddenly hungry interest immediately visible. “I’m about to suck your cock, Spence, I don’t except daisies.”

“That,” he agreed weakly. “That’s… fine. Good. Very… good. And would be so lovely…” An eye roll returned his babbling. “Just…”

“You’re being a self-conscious shit,” she said with a smile that was softer than her words. “Spence, hey. I won’t if you don’t want it… but I’m not down here because _I_ don’t want to. Honestly…” She examined his dick quite openly and he winced and hissed at the same time, twitching with excitement at the fierce regard. “I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

“Okay,” he breathed out, and she seemed to take that as permission, licking up the length of him. “Uh. Yes. Thank you. Really… thank you…”

“New rule,” she growled, pressing her lips against him as she spoke and leaving a strange rumble of feeling that had his stomach twisting into happy/frantic knots. “Stop _thanking_ me like I’m doing you some obscene favour instead of sucking you off—” She mouthed here at the head of his dick with her tongue pressing hard against his skin, slipping free to finish: “—because you’re a really attractive guy that I _really_ want to fuck and also, you’re not playing the game.”

He blinked. Realized he was staring at her and fumbled for the controller before hammering the unpause button and immediately being trampled by a moose.

“Last shot,” she said cheekily, and swallowed him down. He groaned, barely managed to stall his hips from bucking up and choking her, and reluctantly pressed _new game_ one more time.

It was.

Aggravating.

“Yes, _fu_ —” he choked at one point, barely managing to take down a boss enemy as she sensed the tension in his body at the near miss and hummed down the whole length of his dick, her hand between his legs and stroking gently. “That, do that again. That’s amazing, _shit_.”

She popped up, mouth shiny-wet and face disconcerted. “You’re so _verbal_ ,” she exclaimed, glancing back to the TV. “How are you doing that and _not_ dying?”

“Communication is integral in any sexual relationship between new partners,” he said without looking away from the screen. “Not everyone is a profiler. And it’s harder to read body language cues when you’re in your own state of arousal—slower, please, or this will end a lost faster than what I think you want it to.”

She slowed. Mouthed gently. He zoned it out carefully to stall the building pressure, his heart hammering and reminding him that there was only so long he could focus on something _other_ than the amazing woman with her mouth a hot, wet pressure around him.

She did something with her tongue that almost finished him and he whined something and worked through it, hips rocking up and teeth gritted. Almost finished. The level. Level almost…

“Your jaw must be sore,” he managed, wanting her to stop before he came, wanting her to keep going _until_ he came. “My concentration is paramount.”

“Your concentration is _insane_ ,” she replied, sounding pissed. “How are you not a mess by now?”

He shrugged, murmured, “Practise,” and ignored her bark of laughter. He was _winning_.

And when he won…

He took a moment to enjoy the mental image before slipping it away and retuning into the game.

She was standing now, out of his field of view but barely in his peripheral. He saw a flash of colour, of movement, heard clothes rustling. When she returned to kneel on the couch by his side, she wasn’t wearing anything. He thought, for a single second, of dying deliberately. What was winning this bet compared to turning his head and seeing _that_?

“I have my pride you know,” she muttered. “The fact that you’re _still_ not looking away from the TV is very hurtful.”

“You’re impressed,” he corrected, sailing through the moose once more. “And my refusal to be easily swayed is turning you on more because when I finally do give in, you’ll know it’s because you’ve worked me up to such a state that I can’t refuse. It’s a very primal attraction.”

Silence followed that. “Are you _profiling_ my kinks?” she said, and he winced. Oops. “Lean that way or your vision is about to be obscured.”

He leaned obediently as she straddled his lap, working his hips around so he was watching the TV from a strangely angled view that made things twice as difficult and—

“ _Emily_ ,” he yelped, as she rolled her hips down. “Cheating!” _She’s wet she’s wet, she’s so fucking wet what the fuck are you doing Spencer_ , he chanted frantically in his mind as she rocked down again and again and pressed the curve of his cock into that waiting warmth.

“Wondering what else you’ve profiled about me, mostly,” she replied, and found his neck again. He wrapped his arms around her, playing the game behind her back as she nestled tight against his body to avoid restricting his movements. This had the unfortunate side-effect of meaning he was _flush_ against her, in every way, and only too aware of what was being held tantalizingly out of reach.

“Almost there,” he squeezed out through gritted teeth, not entirely sure what was happening on the screen anymore and way too tense to pay attention to what was happening on his lap. “Just a bit…” She reached between their legs, hand finding his dick and adjusting it with slow, smooth gestures until the head was pressed _right_ where a single sweep of his own hips would see him seated inside her. He managed, “oh god,” and rolled his hips up once without conscious control, feeling himself nudge inside.

“Shit,” she panted, pressing down and tremoring against his body. “God, yes, _fuck_ , Spence. Just. Stop. Give in. It’s a stupid bet, we’ll prove it later, just fucking _do something_. I’m clean, I know you’re clean, it’s safe, I trust you, I _trust you._ ”

Last level. He was on the last level. He canted his hips, setting up a slow, twitching rhythm that saw him only _just_ pushing in. With every twitch, she jolted and tried to press down, her muscles rigid against his body and increasingly slick between her legs. He did that once. Twice. On the third time, he actually rocked upwards and felt himself slide into her hot, tight heat as she groaned with a ragged kind of _thank god_ , before jerking back down and out.

A hand fisted through his hair, both of them breathing harshly and flushed now. He could feel heat radiating from her, smell the mix of sweat and sex on the air. “Fuck me now, Spencer Reid, or I swear to god—” she snarled, so he did. Dropped the controller with a clatter, looked at her for a long moment just to admire how absolutely perfect she was in this moment, and then spread his wide hands over her hips to lift her and pull her down onto his length.

They both cried out and buckled together as he rolled with her so she was underneath. The box slipped from the couch with a crash that they only slightly twitched towards, a wine glass toppled emptily over, and he seated himself overtop her and set up a punishing pace that _hurt_ with how good it was with every move. His hands, quick and nervous, fumbling between her legs for the stimulation she probably didn’t need at this point; he _needed_ to see her come before he did. And he knew he wasn’t far, not now that he was inside her, not now he was aware that he was a little bit head over heels for the woman under him and that was only increasing with every breathy little gasp of his name that she managed.

“Stop trying to make me come first,” she teased, grabbing his hands with hers and arching her back as she stretched and broke their rhythm, holding them above her head. He couldn’t thrust properly with his arms like that, but he _could_ kiss her, and he did, barely letting up for air long enough to gasp: “No way did I just spend two fucking hours working you up for _me_ to finish first.”

“I don’t need my hands to make you come,” he told her, his voice thick and deep and from somewhere in his chest. “I’m a _profiler_. And your best friend. And—” _I know you_ , he almost said. _I love you_ , but he bit it back: “—I am a little clever.”

“Smart-ass,” she told him, and wrapped her legs around his back to pull him in deeper. He whined and pushed with her pulling, feeling his balls tightening with anticipation, knowing they were hurtling to an exceedingly messy end. “Prove it.”

He lurched forward and kissed her frantically, like he was trying to learn her just by the way she moved against his mouth. Hands fumbling for hers, he tangled their fingers together as he tasted the wine on her breath, scented his own musky tang on her lips, froze as he almost fucking _came_ just from that. “You’re a daredevil,” he managed, stalling his hips until the building throb faded just enough to let himself think. “You like danger. It excites you. You tempt it.” Her frown snuck on, but he wasn’t done. “I’ve seen you watching me with my gun before. I bet you’ve used the mental image of a man with a weapon as a masturbatory aid—”

“You,” she whispered, and now she was shaking under him, her eyes glazed and dark. ‘Yes, but you. Not a man. The way you hold your gun, the contrast between your hands and the…” She trailed off, panting.

That was. Unexpected. And now his mind was shattered with images of her working herself alone in her bed with his name on her lips. Barely, just barely, he regained his composure, the Mickey Mouse theme playing polysyllabically in the background to remind him of what was at stake. “You get off on danger,” he whispered, getting the upper hand and using the hands she loved to grip her wrists with just enough pressure that he was uncomfortable. “You love being under me. You can see the power I hold over you like this…” He adjusted his grip, pinning her arms back, knowing the muscles were corded and tense in his forearms and bicep. “Sexual dimorphism. I’m stronger than you, despite being lazier. And I know you like this, because I can feel you getting wetter with every word.”

“Fuck you,” she hissed without any venom, straining against his grip. He knew she’d like bruises there, patterned on her skin, but he wouldn’t leave any. That wasn’t anything he felt capable of doing. “But don’t stop, Jesus, Spence. Don’t stop talking, for once in your life.”

He curled closer, their hearts beating together. “You like being pinned down, restrained,” he said, his skin crawling at the idea of being tied up but his body alive with the way she responded to it, “don’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, writhing under him. “You _could_ hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t ever,” he responded sharply, and she twitched. Half-moaned with her eyes hooded and his cock buried deep inside her. “You’re completely safe with me, Em. That’s what turns you on… not the danger. If it was the _danger_ , you’d picture any man.”

“What makes you different?” she asked, one eyebrow curled up. “Cocky little thing, you are.”

“Vulnerability,” Reid mumbled against her mouth, kissing her hard. “You’re vulnerable under me. My hands on you. And completely safe despite that because I’d never let anything happen to you. You can _let go_.”

“Oh,” she breathed, and she did. Her muscles rippled and drew him in deeper and deeper as she came in a hazy, gasping mess, her fingers fluttering on his wrists. She came slowly, a gorgeous undoing, and he watched her without moving, drinking the sight in. Boneless and sated under him, she drew her arms around him and pulled him close, their sweaty skin sticking and sucking together as they shifted until his back was against the couch cushions and her mouth was pressed to his throat. “Your turn,” she mumbled, moving lazily, and he was still hard and throbbing inside her. “I trust you.”

He moved, finding his rhythm, giving into it. His hips pressing into her and working her apart as he spooled down into falling apart. “I need,” he managed, closing his eyes and losing his thread of thought, “something.”

“I trust you,” she repeated, and the words hammered home. He groaned. “Completely, Spence. Absolutely.” She found his ear, lapping at the lobe and sucking it into her wicked lips. “Come for me,” she purred, and he gasped, “I’m trying,” and teetered on the cusp. She tried again: “ _Why_ do I trust you, Spence? Tell me.”

“Because, I…” he stammered, the words hard and shaped oddly in his mouth as his brain rocketed to his crotch and focused completely on the insatiable need to _finish_. “I’m yours.” She laughed and nodded, hugging him tight and kissing his jaw. “I’m your… your best f-friend. And I’m…”

“Falling in love,” she said, and kissed his mouth as he nodded helplessly. “Finally. Took your time. You’ve been my _everything_ for months now.” He swallowed as she breathed, “I love you,” and tasted those words on her lips. He finally, _finally_ hurtled over the cusp and came with a deep-seated moan and a whispered, “Oh god, I can feel you,” from her as he pressed in _hard_ and lost himself in the pulse of his climax.

They lay together in a sticky, hot knot of arms and legs, his cock softening inside her and a damp patch growing under them from their collective messes. He kissed her gently as he came back to his head, giddy with the words and dizzy with the wine and heavy with the desire to gather her close and fall asleep.

“Look at you,” she said with a snort, studying him. “Such a _man_. You’re half asleep already.”

“Mm,” he agreed, nuzzling closer. “We should clean up. And you should use the bathroom. And…” He stalled as she rolled her eyes at him, then charged forth. “And then we can… sleep. If you want me to stay…”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, slipping away with a grossly wet sound and wincing as she felt the mess on her legs.

He looked behind her, sitting up and catching her hands. This was something, here, this thing they’d started. Something new. He should be careful with it, because he couldn’t survive losing it… but he’d always been a little reckless.

“Because I won the game before I gave in,” he said with a smile, pointing to the _Congratulations_ painted across the TV screen. “I’m a _winner_. And immune to your powers of seduction, Emily Temptress.” She made a furious noise of dismay, lunging for a pillow to belt him with. He won that fight, too, snatching the pillow and bolting out of reach into the bathroom where she followed him right into the shower where they pressed the against the tiles and kissed themselves stupid.

**Author's Note:**

> **Edited August, 2017.**


End file.
